


Outlast: Whisper

by MegaWatt



Category: Outlast, Outlast Whistleblower
Genre: Gore, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Insanity, Murder, Torture, Violence, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-10-01 14:54:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 19,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10192391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MegaWatt/pseuds/MegaWatt
Summary: What happened at Mount Massive Asylum remains for the most part, a mystery. Not any longer. I am Heather Blaire, the younger sibling to a more known Jeremy Blaire, together a mighty force from the corporation we worked for, Murkoff. It is time that my side of the story, no matter how painful, be revealed for all to see. What you think of me will not matter. At this point, I am just a whisper of my old self.





	1. The Power of Blaire

**Author's Note:**

> All credit goes to the developers of the popular game Outlast and Outlast Whistleblower. Knowledge of these games is not necessary to understand this story, but will make it more enjoyable. Obviously not all aspects of the story are canon.

_I don't expect people to forget about who I was before everything went down the drain. I was a grade a classic bitch. Queen of the world. In every way, a Blaire. Though Jeremy, my older brother, was technically above me, we both ran Mount Massive Asylum and in that regard, Project Walrider._

_I have no doubts, everything that happened there was our fault..._

**FILE NAME 0125_Personal_Entry**

She was not in a good mood, and everyone knew it. So when she traversed down into the labs for an unscheduled performance evaluation , no questions were asked. In fact, as she took a seat in the background, she became quite invisible.

She was Heather Blaire. She could do whatever she wished.

As it was, the decision was spontaneous. Her valued tablet had an unexpected glitch, forcing her to wait until it was repaired.

A bad thing, a very bad thing.

Officially, her role was head administrator, a step below the head of the asylum. Responsible for the ins and outs of Mount Massive, hardly anything happened without her know and approval. Unofficially, she was Murkoff's best hacker, keeping the firewall tight, media off their tail, and every now and then, cheering the employees computers to make sure they weren't doing anything...untimely.

Not exactly legal, but neither was the nature of the project.

Project Walrider. That's what everything was all about. A collection of mindless nanites placed into a human body. Unlimited power and potential controlled with a single mind. And if we had power over that mind, we had power over the Walrider. Of course, the actual transaction is quite traumatic for the body. Welcoming a parasitic entity isn't exactly what we're made to do, so we prep our patients first using an old Nazi technique that had immediate results. With pre-engine therapy, the mind is properly broken enough for the machine. The Morphogenetic Engine. Side effects are...unpredictable. Definite increase of strength and bodily malfunctions, only death here and there. Very very illegal.

So our patients are ones that aren't missed. The criminally insane. The lunatics. The unfixable ones. Welcome to Mount Massive Asylum.

And that is where Heather was now, at the heart of it all, sitting in a room filled to the brim with controls and people ready for action, ready on for the next patient to receive treatment on the other side of the glass.

Yet _nobody_ was prepared to receive the next patient, Mr. Eddie Gluskin who is supposed to be treated any moment now. Apparently their software guy was nowhere to be found and the screens that were responsible for monitoring everything important were _offline_.

Oh this is most unacceptable.

Fortunately for the scientist in charge, Mr. Waylon Park did finally show up, and just as Mr. Gluskin was being brought in.

How calm would you be Steve if you knew I was sitting back here?

"Miss Blaire?"

She rolled her eyes. A scrawny insignificant paper boy nervously held her tablet in his hands. She turned a sharp gaze his way and spoke under her breath. "Not. Now."

He was about to say something else when a sudden slamming against the glass stole her attention. She rose to her feet, eyes wide.

They let Gluskin break free?!

It was only for a moment, and his restrainers were on him quickly. But before they could pull him away, his broken, crazed blue eyes locked onto her icy yet equally blue ones. The action sent an unexpected chill down her spine, as if he knew who she was.

_It's nothing_

Otherwise, the most damage caused was Mr. Park falling back from his chair. And igniting the rage of a Blaire. Perhaps more damaging than Steve thought.

"You're finished, Mr. Waylon Park. You can leave. Don't expect anything but honesty in my review of your performance." Came Steve's voice, sending Waylon scurrying, and her taking a step forward.

"That won't be necessary." She said in an even tone. "I've seen quite enough."

"M-miss Blaire." He said, his cool composure momentarily cracking. "I was not aware that you were here to evaluate us today."

She crossed her arms, allowing some of her anger to show. "No, I came on my own accord. And I have to say that I am _not_ pleased." She was about to go on, when the insignificant one dared to say her name again, this time with insistence.

"Miss Blaire."

She wheeled on the spot, outrage clear on her face. But it all vanished when she saw on her tablet, held in the shaky hands of the employee, an alert. A very important alert.

"Now this is interesting..."

She took the device from his hands and dismissed him, soon after touching her earpiece, calling the one person she called every time after receiving such an alert.

"Jeremy." She began as soon as he answered. "Server room B. You know the drill." Then, almost snidely, she added "Somebody's been telling stories outside of class..."

~. ~. ~

They stood side by side, watching everything. The glass was tinted purposefully. Nobody was to know that they were watching the whole operation from above. Busy as they are, the Blaire siblings don't tend to come up here often, but when they do, it is often together. Heather looked down to their latest 'patient', still unconscious from the beating he took from the security guard.

"Is this really necessary?" She questioned softly, provoking a dark eyebrow to rise on her brother's face. His features mirrored her own, sharp, precise. Striking blue eyes and well groomed her black hair. Her hair used to be longer, waves of cascading black curls. But now rests evenly at her shoulders. They could be twins, except for the year that separates them, making Jeremy the elder.

"He was trying to get unwanted attention. He will try and do it again. This way, he cannot."

She pursued her dark lips. "Mr. Park deserves punishment, that's a given, but full blown treatment? Jer, this is the third employee this week. We can't keep doing this."

He turned to me, arms crossed. "Are you questioning me?"

She responded by placing her hands on her hips. "We're going to have to replace him. And it won't be easy. Word gets around Jeremy, we can't sacrifice _all_ our employees."

He scoffed and faced the glass once again. She just sighed. "We'll see to the end of this project. I know it. But we must be careful or everything will crumble beneath us. I'm going to my office. You know how to reach me."

They exchanged no further words as she left, and she couldn't help but feel the heavy weight on her shoulders. Jeremy and Heather, they were once such an incredible team, capable of doing anything. But as the pressure to succeed in this project grew, so strained their relationship became. She reached for the door that led into her spacious office.

 _It'll all be over eventually_. She thought to herself _Then maybe things can go back to normal._

She let herself in, already moving on in her thoughts over the emails Waylon sent. She'll need to make sure and corrupt the message, maybe send a few false files to bury the mess Mr. Park made.

But deep beneath the labs, in a separate bubble tank, the impossible was happening. Project Walrider, was a success. And nothing would ever be normal again.


	2. The Incident

_When I was small, I remember wanting to be a dancer. I spent long afternoons twirling around the parlor in my yellow sundress as my mother played away on the piano. I had such marvelous dreams of becoming a dancer._

_Then my mother died. And I had to face reality. Jer and I became involved in business, and a little politics, obsessed with the idea of success. Of wealth. Of power._

_I still wonder what would have happened if my mother never became ill._

**FILE NAME: 0113_Personal_Entry**

She sat at her mahogany desk and booted up her computer, there was work to do. Mr. Park had sent out multiple emails and it was her job to make sure they did not arrive to their intended recipients.

Easier said than done.

Mr. Park had an unfortunate head start. She managed to corrupt most of the sent files, but there was no way to tell if _all_ of them have been taken care of. This means possible media trouble.

She rubbed the back of her neck. Jeremy needs to know this no matter how much she didn't want to tell him.

She dialed his number on her earpiece. "Jer, it's about the emails Mr. Park sent."

Nothing on the other end. Could he just be too annoyed to respond?

"Jeremy, it's important, I don't think I got them all."

Again, nothing.

"Jer?"

It was then she realized that there wasn't even a dial tone, there was no connection at all. She frowned. Mount Massive wasn't supposed to lose cellular connection, ever. Someone must have deliberately cut off any and all radio signal. _What could be going on?_

She decided to take her tablet with her, as well as her side bag. It could be a bug in the system, maybe she could solve it herself. As soon as she stepped out the door, the most unusual sensation hit her. It was horribly quiet, and her heartbeat unexpectedly quickened. Where did everyone go?

One problem at a time. She closed and locked the door to her office and began to walk towards the radio tower. Again, the silence surprised her. It was the middle of the afternoon and there wasn't an employee in sight. She went down the stairs, trying to phone Jeremy again, when she finally heard something. Muttering.

She went around a corner to find, to her alarm, a patient clad in typical beige clothing, staring blankly at a television.

"Excuse me!" She barked. "What do you think you are doing out of your cell?" No response. In fact, he did little to acknowledge my presence. This was even more troubling; how did a brain dead patient amble all the way over here? Where were his guards?

These were troubling questions. She backed out of the room to continue down the hall and hopefully find answers. Maybe security was making their way up here this very moment. The hopeful thoughts were soon banished as the acrid smell hit her square in the face. The smell of blood.

Horror filled her very being. She suddenly realized what had happened. She needed to leave. She needed to leave right now. Since there was no time to document this, she pulled out her tablet and began recording.

"This is Heather Blaire on the official record. There has been an incident. The patients are loose, I repeat, we have rogue Varients wandering free in this Asylum!" As if to spite her, movement in the screen caught her attention. She spun around, slipping the device back into her bag as a giant, burly, monster of a man began walking towards her. His face was stretched wide into a chilling grin, his hands were easily the size of her waist, but worst of all were the clinking sound of his chains. She knew exactly who he was. She found security.

"Mr....Mr. Walker. You're not supposed to be free." He ignored her, continuing to make slow progress towards her. Her gaze glanced to the left. There was a window just small enough for her to fit through. If she could just move without drawing too much attention to herself....

As if a hidden voice spoke in his head, Chris Walker straightened suddenly, snarled, and lunged forwards and grabbed her by the throat, stealing away any thoughts of escape and replacing them with a sudden need for air. "You're not going anywhere _swine_." And he slammed her into the plaster wall, silencing her thoughts as she slid into unconsciousness.


	3. The Meal

_We don't have  female patients. Before Murkoff took over the asylum, they were equally accepted because there are women who have mental illnesses after all, but they respond...differently to the Morphogenic Engine. Violently. Psychosomatic pregnancies to be blunt._

_So it wasn't just that I was not a patient, but I was a female non-patient. As you can imagine, this caused me to stand out quite a bit. Imagine being the most hated person in the room, with a neon sign attached to your chest. That's a bit what it was like._

**FILE NAME: 0049_Personal_Entry**

The first thing she became aware of was the throbbing pain in her head. It was a horrible pounding that made everything come to her slowly. She was vaguely aware of being carried, but in the most uncomfortable manner, slung over someone's shoulder. Large coarse hands held in place. She couldn't remember what happened; something that wasn't good, but maybe it was a dream? Was she drunk? That would explain the headache, and who was carrying her...

_Dad?_

She wriggled in dissent, wishing to not be held in a way that made her headache worse, but that earned her a rough squeeze that pushed the air from her lungs. Details became fogging again as she tried to remember how to breathe normally. Then she realized that she had not been drinking, her clothes wouldn't make sense. She wore a black blazer that fit her snugly and on the inside a white lace blouse that cut off at the sleeves. Further down she wore a black pencil skirt, patterned pantyhose, and to finish it off a pair of black, embellished, ankle boots to match with a dark leather side bag, large enough to fit her tablet and any other documents.

So she was at work then, but why does her head hurt so badly? Before she could work out way, she felt that she was being placed down rather roughly onto something soft. The texture was odd, bumpy in unusual places. And the smell...the smell....  
She opened her eyes, focusing on the wide grin of Walker, placing something else on top of her. Her focus moved and a scream built up in her throat. Staring eye to eye was the face of a dead man, eyes glassed over and mouth hanging open. She wanted to scramble away, but two more bodies were placed on top of her, pinning her to what she deduced was a pile of corpses.

_Why_ was she here? Walker merely strutted away, leaving her the only living person in this fetid room. Or so she thought..

Beyond her field of view came the sound of a buzzsaw. The lights flicker, and it's just enough to see the shadow of a thin man leaning over a dead body. She pales. The sound of smacking and slurping is more than enough to tell her what's coming next.

_Think Heather think!_

He doesn't know that she's alive. She can't move now, all she can do is play dead and wait for him to move on to another meal. But did he take his sweet time, savoring each meal as if it'd be his last. From where she was, Heather could hear each sickening pop of an eyeball being squeezed out of it's socket, the tearing of flesh and snapping of bones and..

She shut her eyes, quivering lightly. If she focused on the sounds being made, she would likely retch and give herself away. Instead she tried to find out who he was. As the patient came over to grab another body, she risked opening her eyes. The sight was horribly gruesome, the man wore nothing but small orange shorts, though most of his body was spattered with blood. His beard and hair were long and scraggly, worst of all was his dark eyes, roaming over his pile with an insatiable hunger.

Frank Manera. She remembered him. He was particularly difficult to treat, given that he had nearly no taste in food. She originally thought this refusal of food related to his mental illness. But it was apparently so much more than that.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he grabbed another body, leaving just one more on top of her. She could almost shift loose, but didn't dare make too much noise. The whirring of his saw made it all to clear what he would do to her. Her plan was simple, as soon as he got to work on the corpse atop her, she'd roll off the table and quietly make her way out of the cafeteria. If she was in the recreational area, she can't be far from the radio tower.

What she didn't account for was how much she stood out from the patients. Not only as a woman, but as a Blaire too. Manera moved the body and immediately laid eyes on her.

"What soft flesh, different from the others. Not as tough to cut into. I'll feed on you next."

Her blood chills in her veins and her heart races in her chest as the cannibal reaches down and plucks her off the table of the dead.

The time for thinking had passed.

As soon as she felt herself fully leave the table, she thrashed wildly, screaming and kicking and clawing. Had he been expecting this, her attacks would have done nothing. As it was, he thought she was dead, so he dropped her. Instantly she scrambled off, out the door and into the hallway. Manera's enraged screams and buzzing of his saw only encouraged her to run faster. The lights were out in this area, allowing her to hide behind an overturned desk.

Frank entered the room, whirring his saw now and then. She didn't move, didn't even breathe as she heard his feet slap the pavement. Off to her left first, but then made his way nearer and nearer to where she hid.

"I can smell you meat, such lonely flesh..."

Her hand covered her mouth as he wrapped his fingers around the edge of his desk and leaned forward. Blood from his beard dripping onto her forehead, his ragged breathing assaulting her eardrums. He was there for hours, for years, for a lifetime when at last he determined that nothing was there, and left the room.

After a stretch of silence, she lets out a shaky gasp, her entire body quivering mercilessly. He was about to eat her. Tear out her bones and drink her marrow. She shook her head. _No_ _don't. Don't think about it._

Forget the tower, this place was a lost cause. Murkoff will just close this sight off, let the patients kill each other, and pretend it never existed. That was procedure. But she was deep in the heart of this place now. She needed someplace relatively safe to get to work.

Easier said than done...


	4. The Attempted Plan

_Right so, I was about thirteen or fourteen when I became really interested in computers. It actually started off as punishment. It wasn't that I was unintelligent, I understood everything perfectly. I was just stubborn. When I read assigned reading, I was ready for deep intellectual discussions about hidden meanings and clever metaphors. But all I received was a test asking about the events that had happened._

_I remember feeling so outraged that I refused to do it, taking an F. This happened quite a bit, and after my mother died, I just stopped caring altogether. My teacher, Ms. Koss, saw the intelligence in me, despite my terrible grades, and decided to send me to a computer club. I was humiliated, until I became intrigued by the secret language of codes, one that constantly shifted and changed and demanded your absolute focus or you would become hopelessly lost._

_I was disconnected to the world. Koss found a way to connect me again._

**FILE NAME: 0049_Personal_Entry**

First things first, she can't be interrupted. The room she was in was relatively small, it might have been an office. She deftly, and quietly, shut the door, then used a nearby file cabinet to barricade herself in. Beads of sweat littered her forehead and she was puffing like an animal, but did it.

She sat with her legs tucked beneath her and booted up her tablet. Immediately she felt the tension ease from her shoulders. This is what she's good at. This was her escape. Through a series of codes and inscriptions, she hacked her way into Mount Massive's servers and spliced her ways into the security cameras. She felt herself smile; child's play.

She heard a whirr and looked up. Blinking back at her was a working camera. "Good to see you too." She breathed. This would make a suitable safe room if she needed to come back here. Hopefully she wouldn't, Mr. Manera was likely to lurk. She cracks her fingers and filters through the feed. Her goal was to of course find her brother, but any additional information the feed could provide would be welcome.

The good news, many cameras were working as power was still being provided throughout most of the facility. Even ones that weren't she could reroute power to those cameras. The bad news, many cameras have been physically destroyed, providing no feed at all. The most damage was in the labs. There was no sign concerning the state of the morphogenic engine. Nor could she find traces of her brother, yet if she knew her brother, he was doing his part and staying out of sight, possibly going to salvage any information he can

It appeared the patients, Variants, have already spread out amongst the Asylum. She chewed on her lip, studying the screens. There was a sort of organization in the chaos, territories based on Variant strength or influence. Within the Administration Block, the Variants seemed docile enough, actually forming some kind of religious cult. She recognized their ringleader, Martin Archimbaud. A patient with delusions of a 'higher calling.' He shouldn't be too much trouble, but his two henchmen, giant and naked twins, one wielding a machete and the other a cleaver. Why they weren't wearing clothes, she didn't know. Maybe it was part of cult initiation.

The Male Ward looked marginally more dangerous. Men laid all over in gurneys, each in separate stages of disrepair. Some were missing limbs, tongues, male....essentials. A few were spliced open then just left that way. She shuddered and quickly switched cameras, only to find the next screen even less pleasant. The Vocation Block. Men didn't just lie dead. They lay...mutilated. Altered to like...women?

Right then. Vocation Block, Male Ward. Avoided as much as possible. But then there was security to worry about. Walker. By the looks of it he was patrolling in the Prison Ward, beheading and slaughtering patients and doctors alike. She rubbed her neck. She supposed she was lucky, dropped off to be a meal instead of finished off right then and there.

'Lucky.'

Someone suddenly banged against her door and her tablet clattered to the ground. Her breath froze in her chest and her eyes darted to the file cabinet. Whoever was outside smashed against the door again and the cabinet gave a violent shudder. She jumped to her feet, shutting off her device and placing it back in her side bag. From outside, a voice called softly "I know you're in there meat. So fresh and so...so lonely."

She cursed under her breath. Of course Manera couldn't just wander off and find some other person to entertain him. Her sharp blue eyes grazed the room for any sort of escape, any way out. But there was only the door. No windows. No exposed vents. Not even a hole in the wall. She huddled over to a corner adjacent to the door and waited. What else could she do?

One final push and the cabinet came slamming down, awakening each and every nerve in her. Frank came ambling in, breathing heavily and whirring his saw. "I know you're in here..."

She bit down on her tongue to stop herself from making any noises. As soon as he was far enough inside the room, she slowly crept towards the knocked down door, not daring to breathe. She had almost made it home free, when her foot caught on the handle, causing it to ring out. Manera wheeled around, electric buzzsaw going crazy.

Then Heather Blaire for the first time ever, ran for her life. Adrenaline surged through her, causing her to zip down corridors, knocking over patients that got in her way. All the while, Manera was hot on her heels crying "Feed me! FEED ME!" She didn't stop. She didn't slow. Even when the sound of his buzzsaw was too distant to really hear, she kept on running until she suddenly found herself outside. She blinked rapidly, chest heaving as she tried to orient herself.

She was near a basketball court, there was only one Variant in sight, and he was immersed in his game. She staggered back a bit. Apparently there wasn't a ball in sight, seeing how he instead was using a severed head. She shuddered. Get Jer, get out.

She walked around the court, thinking fast. The only places she didn't have sure feed was in the prison, and the underground labs. The labs are likely to be in the worst of condition, but would also hold the most answers. But the fastest way to get there was...was...

She gave an angry huff. Was to go back. No. No! That would be suicide! There's got to be a better way like..like...

Her thoughts were interrupted as two cool voices spoke out from behind.

"That's not a patient."

"Nor a doctor."

"Then what is it?"

"I think we could kill it."

"I would like its kidney."

"It is yours."

Well she needed no further incentive. The way back was blocked so she instead sprinted forwards as the Twins decided to now make a meal out of her.

Isn't anyone here even a little vegetarian?!


	5. The Unconventional Hiding Place

_To answer what is Project Walrider, is easy. There are hundreds of files with exact details over what we were doing and how we were doing it. But to answer what is the Walrider is more difficult._

_From my basic understanding, it's a collection of nanotechnology held together in a single form by electricity, producing a sound quite like radio static. Yet that seems nearly too basic an answer. Many of the Varients treated it as their god thing, and it did seem to spare a few within the facility. But not many._

_I don't know exactly how it got loose, we've seen it inhabit other hosts in the past, but this time the host seemed to be more of a vessel to unlimited bloodshed than a means of control._

_The Walrider is nothing short of a monster to me. It always will be._

**FILE NAME: 0298_Personal_Entry**

Why oh why had she worn heels today? She had a sleek pair of black flats that had a strap over the top of it that would have gone smashingly with her outfit.

But no. She was forced to dash down the halls on unsteady heels.

This time, however, a mad wild dash was not enough to shake The Twins. Just when she thought she lost them, she'd hear one cry out and the other catch her eye. A sudden shudder of fear passed through her. She was getting closer to Manera's 'kitchen.' She'd be cut off.

Her stomach flipped over. Cut off. Not the best choice of words.

She skirted around a bend. She needed to get out of this area faster, she couldn't evade The Twins for long. Worse of all, the lights in this area have nearly died off completely, leaving her in murky darkness. She slowed as it grew more quiet. Maybe she lost them? She squinted in the gloom, feeling against the wall to find which way was forward when all of a sudden, her foot ran into something. Something _moving_.

She gasped but was cut short when something slammed against her face, sending bursts of pain into her skull. She staggered back as whatever hit scattered off. As if in a dream, her hand brushed against her lip and came back wet. Her lips have always been dark, maybe some of the dark was dripping off? She started forwards in a daze, until her mind began to make sense of things. What was on her hand was blood, she was being pursued...

...and has hit a dead end..

She spun around, hoping her mistake didn't cost her too much, only to find too massive and naked forms blocking her way out.

"The chase ends."

"So it seems."

"Seems hardly fair."

"We gave it a good chance."

They were advancing closer and closer, her heart raced in her chest. There had to be a way out, but every direction she looked was nothing but condemning walls. The bigger of the two lunged forwards and pinned her against the wall by her throat. The other stepped forward with his machete in hand. She struggled and thrashed, but could do nothing as he began to slide the tip of his weapon into her midriff. She shut her eyes as sharp pinpricks of pain sliced its way through her body.

_My God_ she thought _They're going to kill me slowly._

The despair in her head was so intense, she didn't hear a more insidious noise that at the moment seemed like nothing, but would haunt her for years to come.

Static.

The short one with the weapon in her stopped "So he comes."

"He will set us free."

"Let us go witness his arrival."

She was released, coughing and sputtering, rubbing her throat and the twins dashed away. With a groan, she rose to her feet. What on earth could have caught those two's attention so quickly? The one was very insistent to eat my kidney a minute ago.

She shuddered, then got herself out of the dead end corridor lest those two decide to return. She did think she heard something, but decided it was not so prevalent.

Until she saw it. Less than one hundred yards away. At first, she thought it was a shadow, but then it swooped down onto an unsuspecting patient, and tore him apart. He barely had time to scream.

That raw power. The way it seemed to hover. It would have seemed like a ghost or phantom to anyone who didn't know any better. Heather knew better.

With shaking hands, she silently dug out her tablet. Just video would be too bright and revealing. Fortunately, she could record in night vision.

"This...this is Heather Blaire on the...the official r-record." She mumbled, camera facing the carnage. "Project Walrider was...was a success. God help us all."

She didn't think it would hear her, yet as soon as she finished speaking, the thing turned its featureless head in her direction.

There was no question. She helped create this thing, and it would undoubtedly kill her. If she thought she was running frightened before, this was something else entirely. With the Twins, they had somewhat human limits. If she had a firearm, they would slow. But this..this thing, it had no limits. It could not be stopped. And it was intent on tearing her apart.

She slipped into another sector of the facility, slamming the door behind her. Where she was, she did not care, there was little time before the nanites, the Walrider would come in here.

She was in a long room, lit by the yawning windows. It had began to rain outside, soft rolls of thunder and flashes of lightning interrupted the pitter patter of raindrops. Her eyes scanned the room, she needed a suitable place to hide, the Walrider would not give up as easily. Her gaze settled on the lines of bathtubs, the only other pieces of furniture in the room, filled with an unfamiliar yet highly odorous liquid.

She hesitated, until the distinct sound of static warned her about the amount of time she had. _Survival before pride_.

Heart in throat, she scuttled over to what she hoped was an empty tub, placed her bag behind it, out of sight, and without giving it too much thought, took a lung full of air and plunged. A moment later, the sound of static burst in her ears. It was in the room.

As soon as she touched the liquid, she wanted to immediately leap out. It was only the sound of radio static that kept her submerged. Her eyes were squeezed shut as the thick substance covered her body. It was warm, thick with occasionally clots, and absolutely putrid. She knew what it was, but refused to acknowledge it. Otherwise....

But no. She could not get up. Could not peek. She could only listen and hold her breath. The sound grew louder. She was nearly positive it was right above her.

_This isn't going to work!_ She was growing frantic _It's going to find me!_

Yet with each passing moment where she expected to be yanked out of the tub, the sound of static grew more and more faint. It had moved on, and she could exit this fetid pool. Right before she emerged, however, her relief was immediately shattered by the feeling of a hand grasping her shoulder.


	6. The Lie

_It was never enough to just say that you're in charge. You have to establish your leadership, otherwise it'll be yanked out beneath you._

_Jeremy used fear. Terrible and insidious rumors spread about how Jer treated disobedience. Many of them were false, a few were true. It was enough to keep people in line._

_For me, fear was one of many tools. Not all bowed to the influence of terror. Everyone was a different instrument to be played, and I was quite the musician. Everyone had a weakness, a pressure point, and it was my business to discover this._

_As long as we controlled people, we remained in charge. But Jer and I didn't have control over people for long. And as soon as that happened, the unbridled hate for us spilled over._

**FILE NAME: 0544_Personal_Entry**

What Heather wished she had done was rise calmly from the bloody bathtub and request the Varient unhand her. That or done something heroic like flip him over her shoulder and into the tub.

What actually happened was Heather burst from the liquid, spewing unfamiliar substances from her mouth, coughing, gagging, and gasping, trying futilely to wriggle free. But whoever had a hold on her shoulders was keeping her down in the tub. After she regained some of her senses, she managed to look up at whomever held her down.

Though a more appropriate term would be _whatever_ held her down.

The Varient above her had clearly been through the Morphogenic Engine more than once. His skin looked to be in rough patches, all the hair had fallen from his head, along with a few pieces of skin, and where his nose should have been was simply a patch of mostly dead skin. He seemed quite pleased with himself.

"Pretty thing, tiny thing. I know what you are." He was unnervingly chipper, and leaned in close to her ear so she could feel the hot musty breath on her damp neck. "You are Blaire."

Her blood ran cold, he knew who she was! But maybe he had enough brain cells left to be reasoned with? Death by drowning in a tub full of blood did not seem to be currently preferable.

"Ah, h-hello." _Stop. Stuttering._ "It's a pleasure to meet you, now if you could just let me out of this bathtub..." She suddenly winced as his grip on her shoulders only grew tighter.

"No, no! No let you go! I caught you, I found you!"

Time to switch tactics, one of her specialties: manipulation. "Yes! Yes of course!" She said more shrilly than intended. "And I believe that deserves a prize, don't you agree?"

The Varient said nothing, she apparently had his attention.

"So ah, _sir._ " The title was difficult to produce, but he didn't seem to notice her strain. "What is it that you desire more than anything else in the world?"

Surprisingly, his eyes grew distant, and she could see the shadow of the man he once was. "I...I had, _have_ , a wife. Isabella. I..I want to see her. I want to go home to her."

Typical. How many times a day has she heard complaints about employees and occasionally patients whine and complain about not being by the side of their loved one every living moment of every day.

Yet she was in no position to chastise.

"Your wife? No problem! If you simply let me leave this tub and..ah...go into the next room, I can retrieve the necessary paperwork and you can be free to go."

His beetle dark eyes actually grew hopeful. "You...you mean it?"

She bit the inside of her cheek. "Wholeheartedly."

Then without another word, he released his hold on her, and even gave her a hand to step out of the damnable tub. With the surge of adrenaline gone, her stab wound from one of the Twins gave off a wave of pain. She internally cursed. Getting in a pool of biologically hazardous material is defiantly not good for an open wound. Yet she forced a tight smile on her lips for the sake of her audience.

"You stay here, I'll have everything in order in just a moment." She stepped over to retrieve her black leather bag to sling over her shoulder, not once taking her eyes off the hideous creature, afraid that at any moment he might smell deception. Yet she had managed to back up into a different room, and slam and lock the door. Horror crossed the Varient's ruined features.

"Liar!" He shrieked, charging at the door, but she had already slid a sturdy cabinet in place. There was no coming in.

"Blaire! Whore! I'll tear the hair from your roots!"

He continued spitting profanities and insults, and she stood, paralyzed, taking it all in.

_Did I go too far?_

_...no. He was going to kill me. He probably doesn't even have a wife._

Heather Blaire was not trained to care. In fact, it was generally discouraged to form any sort of substantial relationship here at Mount Massive. Work came first, the advancement of humanity. That was the Murkoff way. So she turned and left the broken man, not giving a second thought about him, his malformed face was already vanishing from memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little shorter than I wanted. Don't worry, the next one will be longer ;)


	7. The Memory

_I had decided early on that I was never going to get married. Specifically, it was right after my mother died. I never wanted to have a daughter that grew up hating her mother for leaving, nor a husband who grew cold after having his heart broken, who terrified the children she left behind._

_So Murkoff was actually a godsend. Every demand and sacrifice, Jer and I met with no strings attached. We both had devoted everything we had towards the corporation. I fell in love with success instead of people. It made us the best. It made us weapons._

_I don't know if I will get married now that I had divorced myself from Murkoff. My purpose and drive have, understandably, have become a little skewed. For awhile, all I could focus on was staying alive for as long as possible. Sometimes I still feel like that's all I'm doing._

_Surviving instead of living._

**FILE NAME: 0076_Personal_Entry**

There was a definite change in her gait. Not six hours ago she would stride down the halls with her head held high, heels clicking against the floor to announce her importance. Scientists and other such employees would scatter out of her way, not daring to make eye contact.

Now she scuttled down the hall like a fugitive, nursing the wound in her side and jumping at every sound she heard.

_Pitiful_.

But her side was really starting to throb, so her next goal was to seek out a bathroom and check out the damage. If she was lucky, there may even be running water. She couldn't move too quickly else she made too much noise, and the mumbling of  Varients was ever present.

There was one that patrolled the halls with a baseball bat, but she managed to slip by him without too much trouble. She entered the dimly lit bathroom, and closed the door. It wasn't her ideal setting, from behind one of the stalls she could see blood and offal litter the floor. Out of order.

She turned away from the stall to look in the mirror, and nearly fled the room in terror. She didn't recognize herself, how could she? Once delicate and painted features were covered in a red film. Her white blouse was forever ruined, but it was the darker spot that concerned her. She lifted her shirt to see her stab wound was steadily bleeding. That's not great, but at least some of the foreign contaminate she foolishly jumped into was being washed out. She experimentally turned on the facet to find it surprisingly running.

Of course it was. Mount Massive was made to outlast its inhabitants.

She cupped her hand under the sink, then poured it over her injury. It stung like a bitch, but it was getting clean. She did that a few more times, then rinsed off her face and arms, taking a gulp of water here and there.

She took a paper towel and pressed it against her wound, which was still unfortunately bleeding. There was an unfortunate lack of bandages, but she did notice a container for feminine supplies...

Not my first choice, but it's better than nothing.

However, she couldn't just reach in and grab one. No no, of all the broken things in the facility, this was still functional, and required fifty cents to get what she needed. Typical.

Once paid for, she tore open the packaging and pressed it against her bleeding side. At least it was plenty absorbent.

Oddly enough, she felt refreshed. Encouraged even. She booted up her tablet, taking a moment to charge it with a nearby electric outlet that amazingly worked. She was going to find her brother, get the hell out of her then...then...

Then what? According to Murkoff, the two of them failed spectacularly. All this chaos was their fault, and they would be held responsible. She chewed her lip. Maybe she'd be able to convince them otherwise? Or at the very least that they were still valuable to the corporation? She just sighed. One problem at a time.

She checked the vocation block again, hoping to not find her brother there. She did see a figure, dressed in a suit, but much too tall. The camera switched views and she involuntarily recoiled. It was a Varient, sores littered the right side of his face, his blue hues unnaturally vibrant against his bloodshot eyes. He seemed to be preoccupied with some sort of stitching. It appeared to be a wedding dress but...well that couldn't be right.

Briefly she recalled her earlier view of the vocation block and the mutilated bodies. What do you do when you can't find a bride? You make one.

What would he do if he found her? The thought made her sick, so it was high time to switch blocks, even if that particular Varient looked familiar.

Next she checked the Recreation Area to see what her good ole friend Frank was doing. The bastard.

He seemed to have caught a patient in an unarmed morgue, seconds away from attempting to cremate him alive. What was odd was that the patient, didn't seem to have been put inside the Morphogenic Engine yet. He still had a full head of blonde hair and small tuft of a goatee...

She nearly dropped her tablet. It couldn't be... _Waylon Park?!_ How was he still alive?

She ran an alternate server, hacking into the furnaces. She didn't necessarily want him to live, but she didn't want that psychopath having the pleasure of eating a cooked meal. _You made me suffer, now it's your turn_...and she lowered the temperature of the furnace to thirty degrees Fahrenheit. Ha.

A pleasurable victory, but still no Jeremy. So she moved on to the Male Ward. Again she found the culprit of all the maiming. But this one she recognized right away.

The way he walked with confidence, the stupid looking goggles that he wore, even the way he worked, no matter how ghastly, was familiar.

This was Richard Trager. Unwittingly, she was pulled into a memory.

~*~*~

She chewed on her lip, her foot tapping the edge of her desk as she sat cross legged, eyes glued on a computer screen. Even when she heard her door open, her eyes didn't leave the screen. "I'm _busy_ " she growled, likely to scare off whoever came in. "If you need me, find yourself an appointment."

"I need appointments now to see my favorite girl?"

This caused her gaze to snap up. He stood there grinning smartly. His long dark brown hair was as usual pulled back into a pony tail, doe brown eyes flashed behind his glasses. Today must be his day off, he was wearing just a white button up instead of his usual suit . Of course, he couldn't go home, not really Murkoff was their home.

And instead of doing something productive, he found it necessary to come and disturb her.

"I'm. Busy." She repeated, this only made him chuckle.

"So what does the Queen of the Asylum have on her plate that has her so occupied hmm?"

He was cheerful. It was giving her a headache. But they both knew there was nothing she could do to scare him off. Any threats she would make would be hollow. So she simply sighed as he came around her desk to study the multiple files opened on her computer screen.

"Patient import. This is Dennis, and the hospital has decided to lower its pay to have him transferred."

"Does he really matter? I say take him or leave him. No single patient can be worth this much hassle."

"This one is different." She had his attention now. 'Different' was rare. "Multiple Personality Disorder. It's possible that he may react uniquely to the Engine."

He nods slowly, she could almost see the calculations forming behind his eyes. "Let me guess: different identities, different treatment, higher cost. But now the ones trying to give him away decide to quit on the deal?"

"Bingo."

"You worry to much buddy. If you put your mind to it, you could convince them to turn over their entire staff and funds for Murkoff."

"We'll see." She said with a sigh, rubbing the back of her neck. How long has she been negotiating this? It's been hours at least, it was quite dark outside.

Not one to miss cues, Rick placed his tough hands on her shoulders to begin expertly massaging. "You work too hard" he purred in her ear. She knew what was coming next.

"Rick, I'm busy..." but even as the words left her mouth, the conviction just wasn't there. If Heather were to look at his mouth, there was sure to be a victorious grin.

"Take the night off, let me help you relax." With that, he reached forward and shut off her computer monitor. She turned to protest, but was instead met with a kiss, one that blanks her mind and weakens her muscles. She hates it when he does that.

Oh but god does she absolutely love it.

He gently lifts her from her chair, her arms going around his neck as they stay lip locked. She knew what was coming next. When she was going to be laid on the couch, when he was going to tug at her shirt, and when she was going to remove his glasses.

And they would make fantastic love.

When it was over, she lay mostly on top of him as they listened to the rain patter against the window, her head rose and fell with the rhythm of his heartbeat.

This was the time to be careful.

Both of them knew they couldn't say anything lasting. He thought it was stupid, but Heather often referred to their relationship as an affair, for both of them were married first to Murkoff. Both of them knew that I may come to the day where they would have to stab each other in the back. She would not be surprised if it happened to her first, nor does she think he would if she acquired the knife before he did.

That's how their affair worked. And yet...

"Do you ever wished we worked for a different corporation?" Weakened by lack of sleep and fogginess from the aftermath of their lovemaking, the question flew out of her mouth before she could stop it. Stupid, so stupid.

Rick sat up a bit so he could fully look at her, intelligence twinkling in his eyes. "Sometimes" he admitted to her surprise. "Yet Murkoff knows how to function. It keeps everyone focused on themselves and their progress so they don't form too many sentimental attachments. Sentiment doesn't advance anything. Sentiment gets in the way of sacrifice."

He licked his lips, and she held on for a longer soliloquy.

"What does a working organism do with its weaknesses? It cuts it off. Snip! Sayonara! Let the stronger parts take over and become even better. More profit, more success. Murkoff is no different. If people get too caught up in silly things like sentiment, we make sure they get sent away. If they decide to do something suicidal like betray the organism they are a part of, it is our obligation to keep them contained. Advancement on the whole works out well for the individual."

"Alright then.." she said, sitting up. "If sentiment is this great evil, what do you call this?"

He chuckled, as if knowing she would ask this next. "Human weakness cannot be avoided, so we..we work together to smooth out the kinks. Release some of the tension you build up. Consider it a business arrangement instead of this great and scandalous 'affair.' And might I say Ms. Blaire.." his voice dropped a few octaves, leaning in close to her ear to say " _we work well together_."

Her breath caught, nearly preventing her from voicing her next question. "So...would you then do....business...with another woman here?"

He gave a longer chuckle this time, as if to point out the ridiculousness in her question. Not that he'd ever say that aloud of course. "You find me someone more important than you Heather, then you ask me that again."

Right there they got close to saying something truly dangerous. His eyes grew suddenly soft, and he ran his fingers through her dark hair. She studied him intently, the way the moonlight danced off his well refined muscles, the way his jaw tensed and flexed when he was thinking hard over something. The words were on her tongue, but before she could betray herself, she slipped off the couch, retrieving her blouse and blazer.

"Thank you Richard for the...business. You as always do excellent work. I believe Jeremy was planning another golf excursion this weekend, we should stop by my house first to perhaps continue where we left off."

Trager said nothing. Looking back, she realized that this love session was more frenzied than others, that all his talk of sentiment and being efficient had a purpose. Five days later, his status as executive was revoked, replaced by patient, and she never saw him again. The twinkling brown eyed brilliant man that always had a tuft of hair free from his pony tail was replaced by something else entirely.

And he knew it was coming.

~*~*~

She couldn't take her eyes off the familiar stranger on the screen. The man wore nothing but a blood stained apron and mostly torn surgical mask. His hair had greyed and had mostly fallen out, save a stringy mess around his crown. His skin, like many other Varients, looked stretched, dry, a sickly rotting color. More monster than man.

The only thing that divided her attention from him was delicate movement in the corner of a screen to reveal a different sort of man. One that was familiar, save the crazed look in his eyes and jerkiness of his actions.

Jeremy Blaire.

So she was going to the Male Ward after all.


	8. The Witch

_If you're reading this, you're probably assuming I'm alive. But how do you know? I could be completely crazy and still inside the Asylum. Or I might've been lucky and made all these entries only to die later on._

_Assumptions are dangerous, more so in places such as this. How can you look at someone and believe that they are sane or crazy or dangerous or..well anything. Answer is, you can't. So you treat everyone as though they would kill you._

_Those levels of paranoia could drive anyone apart._

**FILE NAME: 0431_Personal_Entry**

Heather was good at manipulation.

_It's actually rather simple._

Just set up a convincing argument right at the start.

_Go in, get out, and don't be seen._

Nothing was impossible if you sounded confident enough.

_Child's play. He'll never know you were there._

And yet...she found she was having a more difficult time manipulating herself.

_Who am I kidding? He's going to find me, rip off my hands and shove them down my throat._

She groans, wanting nothing more than to stay in the safe little bathroom, but knowing she had to move else she risked the chance of losing her brother. Again. She unplugged her tablet which was now at a much higher percentage, and opened the door.

To her delight, nobody stood outside ready to chop off her head. In the distance she heard pounding upon a door, but it was far enough away to not pose any sort of problem. She actually wasn't far from the Male Ward, thanks to Mr. Walker giving her an unexpected ride. It was still strange that he didn't instantly maim her. Maybe...he had enough sanity left in him to remember who she was? Perhaps her influence held more power than she thought.

Or made her that much more of a target.

She was getting sidetracked. Or...if she was being honest, she was stalling. She let go of Trager years ago. The man near her brother was...something else now. But how could she quit now? Heather Blaire never shied from a challenge.

The hardest part was keeping track of her brother on her screens while moving forwards without making mistakes. And mistakes came with a heavy price. She pushed open a door only to find a room full of Varient's of all varying deformity. Some of their limbs have become so succumbed by sores that they were little more than long stumps.

"It's the witch!"

"We should burn her...watch her squirm"

"No more watching."

She just slammed the door shut and ran the other way.

This has to be some sort of sick joke. Witch? Really? With her camera and her name she might as well be in some sort of horror documentary. It would be funny if she wasn't running for her life.

She leapt over an overturned desk, sending spouts of pain from jolting her stab wound. There had to be a place to hide, she couldn't keep running forever. She darted into an unnamed room, slamming the door shut behind her. Heart pounding viscously, she looked for any place she could conceal herself. There was a locker, but only one. In the back laid an overturned desk. Too obvious, she'd be caught too quickly!

Something smashed into the door behind her, and it creaked dangerously. Think think think! Her eyes darted up and she found her salvation. An ventilation shaft, just large enough to fit through! She pushed a chair over so she could reach it as the door was slammed against the second time, she could hear the frantic chattering of the Varients outside. She stepped up and reached with shaking hands. The shaft had a covering, and it was screwed shut. The door shook once more with a sickening shutter. There was a knife next to the desk, alongside a plate, as if someone was getting ready for a meal. That will work.

Without drawing a breath, she flew off the chair and clutched the utensil. As soon as she resumed her place on the chair, the door burst down, and four Varients began entering the room.

_Block them out, get to work._

All she could hear was a sort of ringing noise as she went into overdrive, working on unscrewing the first screw and trying to drown out the crazed conversation around her.

"The witch has nowhere to fly."

"Set the wood on fire. Make her squeal!"

She heard the click of a lighter. _How in hell did they get their claws on that?!_

The first screw clattered to the ground and she wasted no time working on the second. She wouldn't have time for all four, she'd just have to hope that two would be enough. The smell of smoke did nothing to stop the shaking of her hands.

_Don't look, don't you dare look_

She could have sobbed with relief as the screw gave way under her knife, but she instead yelped with sudden pain as the fire started to lick her ankles. She reached up with frantic energy and began pulling. Fortunately, the vent swung forward with little resistance. One of the Variants had stopped cheering, suddenly noticing that their 'witch' was about to get away, and he lunged forwards, intending to grab her.

She jumped up and kicked the burning chair his way. Suddenly all the jeering and laughter turned to enraged and pained shouts and yelps, but Heather did not look back, and did not slow until the dim echoes of the madmen died out completely.

Only then could she stop moving for a moment, still shaking like a leaf. What she wanted to do was completely disregard the Variant's words as nothing but utter nonsense, and that would've been easy if they called her a cat or something ridiculous. But they shouted witch as if they _knew_ who she was. As if they've been picturing burning her for a very long time.

She felt sick to her stomach, but pushed aside her nausea to check her ankles, afraid to look at the tender skin. But she was lucky, only minor burns that stung when touched, but weren't bleeding.

Her hand slid along her face as a bone-weary tiredness filled her, but she knew if she gave up now, she could lose Jeremy.

That could not happen.

So on she crawled. Towards the Male Ward. It was time at last to visit her old lover to save her brother.


	9. The Fingers First

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I kept you all waiting for so long! Enjoy your new chapter, I'll try and post the next one sooner ;)

_Golf. What is it about golf that men are so obsessed with? Granted, I only was ever with two, but all they ever wanted to do was play a game of golf whenever we got the rare chance to leave work._

_Granted again, all I wanted to do was socialize._

_So we compromised. I was allowed to bring a bottle of wine, and they were allowed to play for as long as they wished. In truth, there wasn't anything for me to do if I didn't go with them. There was the three of us, and nobody else._

_That isn't the depressing part._

_We were all prepared to stab one another in the back. If Murkoff demanded it, we would follow through without a second thought. Afterwords however, we did. I speak honestly when I say that Jer and I had nothing to do with Trager's sentencing. But I can't help but wonder if there was something I could've done to stop it._

_For awhile, Jeremy did too._

**FILE NAME: 0312_Personal_Entry**

Her boots plunked against the hardwood floor with an echoing slam, signifying her entrance to the Male Ward.

_Here goes nothing._

She was shaking more than she wanted to, not having really recovered from her...burning. But could she ever fully recover? Their raw hatred and mocking laughter and the feel of flames hungrily devouring the chair on its way towards her.

The world around her suddenly span violently, forcing her to lean against the wall and inhale giant gulps of air. Was this the outcome of Project Walrider? This...this terrible hell on earth? For a moment, Heather Blaire began to doubt the corporation she worshiped so diligently.

Then she remembered who she was, and picked herself up.

_Get Jeremy, and run without looking back._

This area was certainly more decrepit than the Administration Block. An air of suffering hung thickly, she held her tablet close. There was something written on the walls, and of course it was written in blood, god knows there's plenty of that to go around.

**FINGERS FIRST,  
THEN BALLS,  
THEN TONGUE.**

What frightened her most was not the message itself. Though chilling, it was the handwriting that held her attention.

She recognized it. Richard.

A sudden groaning to her left shattered her thoughts, and nearly made her leap out of her skin. It was a Variant, chained to the bed, both of his legs completely removed. What was worse was the amputation hadn't been properly treated, blood and puss alike oozed steadily from the openings. She was getting ready to get properly sick, when the patient she thought mostly dead started to speak.

"I...remember you. You're a...a snake. I got too close to you, and you bit me..."

Her mind was in a frenzy. Thoughts of men she sent below, of patients she agreed to be treated, of infections, of pain, of amputations. Did Richard do this?

"Is the snake looking for her sibling? He slithered by here too..."

Her thoughts quieted. "You've seen my brother? Where? How long ago?"

But he had long ceased talking to her. "Two snakes slithering around. How long until you bite each other's tails? What happens when the snakes get too close?! Too close!! **Close**!!"

He was thrashing in his bed now, screaming incoherently. _Too much noise!_

"No, no! Shush! It's..it's okay! Just be quiet! Be still be..." The words and color faded from her face.

They weren't alone anymore. Dr. Richard Trager stood calmly in the frame of a door, just opposite where she stood. She neither moved nor breathed as he slowly made his way over to the hysterical legless Variant. Only when he was fully in the light did she see the shears he held in his hand. The glinted in the light as he brought them up high, and roughly shoved them into the throat of his patient. She gasped sharply, and the Variant gurgled on his blood.

Richard just sighed "I've been meaning to do that for awhile now. He was only getting worse. And loud." How could he sound so...so calm? As if this was just another annoyance of a job.

In a way, however, this was his new job.

He wiped the shears on his apron and turned towards her. "I've been wondering when the great Blaire would pay ole Rick here a visit. For awhile I thought you had forgotten me." He gave a dry chuckle and placed a hand on her back, indicating that he wanted her to walk with him. Though her every nerve was intent on sprinting away, she would be a fool to refuse.

Heather Blaire was no fool.

And so, the two familiar strangers walked through the Ward of suffering patients, many of which were dead or dying. Her heart raced, but Heather's features remained passive, concealing the panic building in her gut. Rick gave off the impression of a calm and collected man, idly chatting with an old colleague. But his long nails jutted ever so slightly into the small of her back, not enough to cause pain, but enough to deliver a threat.

They walked like that until they reached a room set up sort of like an office. A cot with a mattress was shoved in the back of the room and notebook paper sprawled with messy handwriting was scattered randomly around the room.

"You'll have to forgive me for the mess. I wasn't exactly expecting guests today." He gave another chuckle, clearing some paper off of a few crates for them to sit on. He sat, waiting for her to do the same.

"I have been a little preoccupied." She said, a small waiver to her voice as she sat on an adjacent crate. She cleared her throat. _You need to calm down._

He just gave a rambunctious laugh "I'll say so! I didn't want to point it out, but you look terrible Ms. Blaire. I'm afraid this project's failure is really getting to you."

She attempted to give a small laugh, but it came out as more of rasping cough. "Yes well, you know me. I get things done." She crossed her legs, fidgeting under his gaze. "I was actually hoping to come across my brother to..um...discuss this mishap and how to proceed. Did you happen to see him Dr. Trager?"

That was the wrong thing to say. Trager, with alarming speed, rose to his feet, sending the wooden seat flying. His hands flew forward, gripping her shoulders. "So that's what this is about huh? Is that why he was here? Well?!" His tone, started off as barely controlled rage, grew in intensity. Heather found herself unable to speak, making some sort of whimpering sound as his nails dug painfully into her shoulders.

"I'm no _idiot_ Blaire! You couldn't care less about what happens to anyone here as long as your disgusting snake skin is spared! I know, that's why you sent me away!"

"No! That's not--" her protest was sharply cut off when one of Trager's hands left her shoulder and came into sharp contact with her face, sending her sprawling to the ground. Involuntarily, her fingers brushed against her cheek. She was vaguely aware of them coming back wet.

"Don't _lie_ to me." Trager hissed. She said nothing in return, too focused on bracing herself for the next blow.

The blow never came.

"Just get out." He finally said. "You can find him heading towards the labs." He paused for a moment before saying "If I find you here again I will kill you."

She believed him, pushing herself to her feet. And yet, in the doorway, she found herself pausing to say. "Rick I...I'm sorry I never said it. While we were alone. I could've, and I wish I did."

She couldn't say it now. Richard Trager, her lover, was dead. It would be said to the wrong man.

Although, when she left, already heading in the direction of the underground labs, she could've sworn she heard him reply.

_Me too._


	10. The Fall

_I was only ever suicidal once, I was around sixteen or seventeen years old. This was a few years after my mother passed and my father became attached to his coping mechanisms. Which only ended up hurting himself and my brother and me. I thought there was no way out. I thought my death would mean nothing._

_So I swallowed a bottle full of pills and embraced death. My brother however was not too keen on letting me go._

_When I woke up in a hospital bed, I realized that trying to kill myself was a horrible idea. I don't think I will ever forget my brother's face, the stress of having to deal with a sister who almost died._

_How could I leave him alone?_

_So yes, there was a way out of Mount Massive, but not a way out for me. I wasn't afraid of dying per say, but I knew I also wanted to live. What kept me from killing myself was Jeremy. If I went, he would be truly alone._

_As Richard would say, too sentimental._

**FILE NAME: 1128_Personal_Entry**

No one else gave her trouble. Not that many of Trager's patients could, but she was still surprised by the ease of exiting his territory. That didn't make the walk in any means pleasant however.

_How can one man cause so much suffering?_

Yet she had been called a viper. Ridiculous. Surely she had nothing in common with the sort of torture going on in this Ward. Surely not everyone here was blaming her for everything that had happened.

The anxiety made her walk faster.

Once again she was reminded by the ruthlessness of her employers. It was expected for the Variants to be mindlessly violent, but Murkoff was ruthlessly unforgiving. If by some miracle she and her brother made it out of here alive, they would still be hunted. They couldn't return to their house, it would definitely be watched, and it wasn't as though they had a plethora of friends to bunk with.

Heather Blaire, was exercising her weakness without knowing it. Overthinking. This isn't always a fatal flaw, and being two steps ahead has greatly benefited her in her career. Yet had she been more aware of her environment, she would have noticed something quite out of the ordinary, a signal that some horrific entity had entered the area.

It was completely silent. No mutterings, no scuffling of bare feet against the decrepit floor. Heather Blaire was closer to the labs than she initially perceived.

Closer to danger.

When she turned the corner, the sound that was prickling in the back of her mind exploded, alerting her too late to the collection of nanites. She was seized by the arms and lifted, a sensation much like being continually shocked by static electricity, and was tossed through a flimsy wooden door. She hardly felt the splinters in her hands and arms as clambered to her feet.

Her legs competed to keep pace with her racing heart. Every time she entered a new sector, she slammed the door behind her, but physical objects did little to derail a formless being as it merely appeared on the other side of the closed door. So she just kept running.

Seeing however was becoming steadily more difficult as she began to enter the areas she couldn't access on her screens, devoid of all power. Not daring to slow, she flipped open her bag to retrieve her tablet and source of light. Doing her best to keep it steady, she flew down the corridor, kicking aside discarded tools or body parts. At last, she realized that the sound of static was growing steadily distant and she could finally slow down.

When suddenly the floor wasn't there.

She might have screamed, or vomited, or just gasped. Her mind wasn't exactly acting coherent as the world rushed around her. Fortunately, she had enough instinct to reach out and grab onto a ledge and stop her fall. Somehow, she managed to hold onto her tablet, which she wasted no time in sliding back into her bag.

Now to haul herself to safety. A simple feat now that she had a handhold, or so she thought. But the ground was slick with water, and she just nearly fell again.

_Okay_. She thought to herself. _You need to figure this out._

But the sound of shoes hitting the ground distracted her thoughts entirely. _This is it. I'm going to die here and now._

.... _wait, shoes?_ Nearly all of the Variants were barefoot. So that must mean that person coming towards her has to be--

"Heather?"

She exactly let out a relieved sob. Humiliating and degrading, yes, but she could little else as the person who knelt above her was the one who drug her this deep into the Asylum. The one motivation preventing her from fleeing without a second thought.

"God, oh god, Jeremy!" She gasped. "I don't know how much longer I can hang on, help me up."

There was a stretch of silence as she got herself back under control. She could see his shadow above her...why wasn't he helping her up?

"Who are you going to tell about this?" His voice sounded off. Tight, tense. She recalled the crazed look in his eye from earlier. What had he been through? Did she look like this?

"We can talk about it later Jer.." she spoke as calmly as she could. "Just help me."

He suddenly lurched forwards and seized her wrists, causing her to cry out. He leaned in and shakily whispered. "No one....can know. No one."

And then, he pushed.

~*~*~

Only twice had Heather had a sensation of falling. The first was literal, when she was a child and decided to try and climb a tree, try and keep up with her older brother. Sure it ended up with a sprained ankle, but she also earned the respect of Jeremy.

The second, was figurative. And by far much worse. It was the day Richard Trager was sentenced to Engine Therapy. The Blaire siblings both watched him go, two armed guards guided him rather forcefully into the labs. Jeremy left as soon as he saw his friend. Heather followed when Rick tried to smile at her.

_Shoulders back. Head high. You are a Blaire._

And nobody could know of her weakness. Not here in the hallway anyway. But as soon as she shut the door behind her to Jeremy's office, it was safe. Safer.

"Jennifer." She said quietly in her earpiece. "Hold all calls for Blaire for the next hour."

"Of course Ms. Blaire. All incoming calls will be forwarded into your inbox."

The earpiece then came off, and out came the tablet. There will be no prying eyes in here. Once the cameras were shut down, she placed the device next to her earpiece on Jer's desk. He sat in his chair, elbows on the desk and head in his hands. She leaned against it, arms crossed.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Silence.

"I can find out who sent the order as early as tomorrow. No sooner."

This just brought a heavy sigh. "It doesn't matter. It won't change anything." He suddenly slammed his fists down on the table, then knocking aside various files and pens. She didn't react, only studying him instead of the carpet. "It was stupid to think..." he broke off, shaking his head.

She moved, standing now beside him as he leaned his head against her. "We'll get through this.." she murmured, draping his arms around him. "Like we always do."

There wasn't much talking after that. A curse now and then, and maybe a silent tear as they mourned their friend, and her lover.

But it was only for a moment.

When the hour was up, she replaced her earpiece and got to work at answering her missed calls. As far as anyone else was concerned, this was nothing to the Blaires. Another event that in no way affected them. Until she found a name a week later and had a man she hardly knew tortured to the point where he was admitting to crimes he never committed.

She didn't execute him until all of his traitorous fingers were forcefully removed. Then hands. Then balls. Then stabbed him in the heart for causing her to fall from hers.

The Blaires were a team, never competitors. A gamble in the business they associated with, but they managed to always come on top. Heather never imagined that this unity would be shattered. That Jeremy would wish for her death.

But there were a lot of things Heather never foresaw. The worst was yet to come...

~*~*~

The darkness pressed in on her on all sides, suffocating, hurling her down, or was it up? Then she was back in her office, holding her grieving brother, then he was holding her hands, only to push her away. She screamed, just wanting it to end, just wanting to know where she stood again as she fell for an eternity.

But eternity ended, with a crushing blow to the water depths below. And Heather Blaire had fallen from herself, not sure if she was in pain from the fall, or the betrayal.


	11. The Witchdoctor

_There was a point that I think I changed, but not a specific moment necessarily. It was the continuous feeling of life or death that made every emotion and sensation that much more extreme._

_But that's beside the point. People don't just change exactly when it's convenient or desired. And even when a momentous event occurs, remnants of the old self remain. I'll probably always be stubborn, independent, and calculating. But my values aren't the same, and heaven knows my fears have changed._

_The Witchdoctor made sure of that._

**FILE NAME: 1003_Personal_Entry**

She had to be dead. She drowned. She died. That's all there is to it.

So why did the afterlife feel so goddamned painful? She attempted to move, but all she managed to accomplish was make the throbbing in her body worse, and splash water on her face. So she just swore instead.

"Language." Came a chiding voice

Her eyes shot open. Somebody had answered her? It was only then that she was aware of being held.

_So that's how I didn't drown._

Heather wasn't exactly feeling grateful however as her 'rescuer' continued to pull her by her arms further from the watery depths. Her head was buzzing, but she was pretty sure she was located somewhere beneath the sewers, near the prison block.

Her senses were returning. The betrayal, the fall, and now she was in the hands of somebody she guaranteed did not have friendly intentions. For some reason, the mere presence of whoever he was set her heart racing, even if his grip was hauntingly familiar.

She'd have to wait for the best opportunity, right when they hit land she'd thrash, bite, claw, whatever and get free. But almost as if he sensed what she was about to do, he slammed her head against the stone ground. She barely had time to protest as blackness swarmed her vision.

"Just wait my child. Greatness is coming."

~*~*~

Heather hadn't expected to dream, but did she ever?

She found herself much younger, in her early twenties, watching as the waiter poured her and her brother a glass of red wine. This was a celebration.

The deed was done.

Yet there were no smiles, no clinking of glasses, just the two Blaire siblings pondering over their actions.

"He isn't going to fail, right?" She spoke softly. This was a conversation best left unheard.

Jeremy first took a sip of his beverage. "He better not." He growled. "Or he'll be in an all new sort of hell."

She nodded. Extortion was not new to her. Nor fabricated blackmail.

Of course, that wasn't the real question on her mind. The man they hired was nothing short of the best. He would get the job done, or die trying.

Jer put the glass down, sighing softly. He knew what she was thinking. She knew that he knew. "Heather, he crossed the line. We gave him a chance when we left for Murkoff. He would only cause us to worry more. He may not just hurt you next time."

She didn't exactly flinch, but her eye did twitch a little. The wine ensured she stayed properly relaxed. Though it was going to take a few bottles to make her forget the bruises covering her midriff.

"You're right of course. I don't feel regret. It's just..."

She didn't need to finish. Of course he knew.

Most children don't order the assassination of their father.

~*~*~

If possible, she felt worse than when she fell from the slippery edge, as if she'd been drug over a field of broken glass. She rubbed her face and forced her eyes open to find herself in a dimly lit room that smelled of coppery blood and piss. But that wasn't the alarming part.

She couldn't feel her left arm. It was as if the limb had been removed from the elbow down. Her stomach violently contracted and she probably would have been sick, had she been alone. As chance would have it, the other man in the room shocked whatever chance she had at losing her lunch.

She wished she looked to the state of her arm instead.

He was smaller than most of the other Variants, about 5 "3, but full of rippling muscles. His clothes were ragged and decrepit, hanging all over his body like a worn cloak. In his hands held a long and pointed walking stick, bones jabbed into it at irregular intervals. The reason for the stick became apparent as soon as one looked to the man's eyes, or lack thereof. Where there should have been a visionary organ held instead two gaping holes, though a majority of his face was mostly concealed by a sort of mask, fused into his skin. She could predict why. Around the edges of the mask the skin sagged loosely exposing muscle and sometimes bone. Attached to the mask were long strands of skinned limbs, still dyed red with blood, twisted and stuck at odd angels.

Her breath caught in her throat. She felt screaming sobbing and swearing all at the same time. But he spoke first.

"Ah, my child. I was wondering when you were going to wake." He rose to his feet, tapping the ground as he made his way over to her, all in rhythms of three. _Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap._

"Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Witchdoctor, and I know all about you Ms. Blaire. You have been unwell for a long time now, I'm afraid there's only one way to fix this." He stopped when he was at her side, bringing his withered hand over her arm.

Or what was left of it. Beyond her elbow, her limb was obscured by a mammoth of a rock, likely crushing the life out of her left arm. Her heart sank. There was no way she could push this off of her, she could barely move. But if she could learn this..Witchdoctor's true identity, convince him of letting her go...

But it appeared he had other ideas. He reached in the folds of his robe to produce a long jagged tool that contained evidence of being previously used. A saw.

"You must be purged Ms. Blaire of the corruption inside of you. This is the only way." He placed the saw within reach of her good arm. His ludicrous action momentarily stunned her.

"Of course, you have a choice." He continued "Stay as you are, and you are not worth being saved. Free yourself, and I can make something out of you."

Momentarily. The moment has passed.

"F**k you, you f**king bastard!" She hissed "If you have any idea of who I am you'll let me out of here this very instant! I'm not playing your sick f**king games."

He just laughed softly, like dealing with a rebellious child. "I will return in an hour. I hope you will make the right choice."

And with that, he tapped tap his way out of the room, slamming the heavy door shut behind him.

Leaving her alone.

First, she denied this was the only way out. There just had to be other options, she simply needed to find out what those options were. She pushed against the boulder with her good arm, straining every bit of herself to move the stubborn thing.

Nothing.

She sat up as much as she could, maybe there was a way to somehow go under the boulder and slip her by now ruined hand out.

Fruitless.

She grew frantic, screaming out for anyone, anything that would hear her and take her away from this place. She started listing names, even though she knew most of them wouldn't come. She called for Richard, for Jeremy, she even called for her mother.

But no one would hear her. And the minutes were ticking by. There really was only one way out.

She finally grabbed the saw by its handle, catching a glimpse of herself in its reflection. In it, she did not see her icy blue eyes, but the irises she shared. Jeremy. Rage blossomed in her heart, the motivation she needed to bring the saw down onto her arm, and move it back and forth.

Unfortunately, there was no quick way to do this. It wasn't as if she could bring down the tool quickly and get this over with. And with the first drag of serrated teeth over her skin, she nearly lost her motivation. But if she was to completely stop, she knew she would be unable to continue, resulting in a probably painful death.

Heather Blaire was no damned quitter.

So the tool drove over her arm, every nerve screaming at her to stop, so she screamed back, spitting curses over Jeremy, over Murkoff, over this entire hell of an asylum. Blood oozed and spilled over as she cut into muscle. Bile rose in her throat, and bitter tears streaked down her face, but she didn't stop.

The enraged cries turned into short gasps as her body flew into a frenzy. Her arm twitched and spasmed, adrenaline filled her to the brim, and she hit something harder, solid.

She nearly dropped the saw, the world violently turning over on itself. She was going to have to break the bone to continue.

Clutching the saw until her knuckles turned stark white, she used the rock that pinned her to the ground. She twisted and thrashed, bending the joint at awkward angles until she both heard and felt it snap.

It took a minute as she cried out helplessly

_Let it end, just let it all end!_

Ruthlessly, she went to work again with the saw when she suddenly felt the limb give a little. She frantically pulled and tugged and sawed until she was flung free of the boulder.

The shock became too much and her stomach contents were heaved out of her mouth. Blood and vomit mixed together on the ground and she held her now stump of an arm close to her body. No longer able to stand, she sat huddled against the corner of the room, unable to stop shaking, unable to form any coherent thought at all.

She wasn't able to stay conscious much longer, her senses were shutting down one by one starting with, to her relief, feel. Then sight. And the last thing she heard before falling back into darkness was a rhythmic tap tapping.

_Tap tap tap._

_Tap tap tap._

"Now my child, we may begin."


	12. The Black Room

_Rarely are we without noise. There are times when it is obviously quiet, but there are background sounds, affirmations that you exist in a moving world._

_Absolute silence, can be deadly. You can whistle or pat your leg or make any sort of sound, but without something else, there's no obvious proof that you are still alive and the world is moving around you._

_I used to enjoy silence, or at least my perception of it. Work comes easier without distractions. But there was always the hum of a radiator, the murmurs of outside voices. Absolute silence is thick, unnatural. Unhealthy to stay in for too long._

**FILE NAME: 0109_Personal_File**

When Heather awoke this time, she knew she wasn't dead. At least in whatever sort of afterlife she was going, there would be something to see.

Quite the opposite now.

She was laying on something firm, a mattress of some sort, but there was no squeaking or groaning as she slowly sat up. Just a mattress then.

Maybe she had been dreaming again, fallen asleep in her office, or Rick's office and he just supplied her with something separate to sleep on. But it was when she tried to scratch her head with her left arm did the sweet illusion shatter. There was nothing there. Just a stump that had apparently been stitched closed.

"I am impressed."

She gave an undignified yelp, then growl of frustration. Of course he was in here. Where the hell else would he be?

"Though I knew you would do it." He says a little bored. "I perhaps know you better than you do."

A cold shudder crept down her back. Normally Heather was the one with the facts, able to unnerve even the most innocent of employees with a single flippant comment. Having the tables turned was an all new sort of loathing for her.

"And just who are you exactly?"

She wasn't sure what she expected from that, but all the Witchdoctor did was laugh, standing up and tapping his way over to the door, slamming it shut behind him, leaving her in the darkness.

And the silence.

For awhile, the younger Blaire just sat there in disbelief. Who _was_ he? She ran through the names of therapists she's worked with. Then doctors. Then department staff. Then realized it was hopeless. There just wasn't enough left of the man to properly identify him. Momentarily she wondered if he removed his eyes himself to become something else.

The hours ticked by, and she was growing restless. Though tempted to tap away on her tablet, she allowed it to remain off as to not waste its charge.

She paced the room, getting a feel for how big it was.

It wasn't.

Maybe it wasn't entirely terrible that she couldn't see a thing. Instead of a claustrophobic cell, she could picture herself in her bedroom while she had a rare time off of work. Not sure what else to do, she crept back over to the bed, gently trying to lower herself when she suddenly found her face hitting the dirty mattress. She was trying to use her left arm. Perhaps her imagination was working too well.

Attempting to take advantage of the rather dismal situation, Heather slowly lost herself to her thoughts.

How had things gotten so out of control? Where were the warnings? The protocols? Everything had been going so smoothly when it all just...just....

_Control_.

This was not her fault. She was not in charge here, and neither was Jeremy.

**Control**.

What a pitiful joke. The reason the Blaires had such success was not because they were the bosses, but because they haven't made a fool of themselves. But the truth is, she and Jer were not a far cry away from becoming just like Richard. All it would take is one mistake.

Her fist clenched into a tight ball and she got up to start pacing again. These revelations were not necessarily a secret to her, she just chose to ignore it because she so dearly cherishes control.

Losing it was too...it was...

She squeezed her eyes shut. _No, no! Think of something else, anything else!_ But it was too late. She was remembering.

~*~*~

Independent life suited the Blaire siblings. In truth they have always lived as adults, but in their own flat it felt more real. Jeremy was in his early twenties, she just shy of leaving her teenage years. Already both of them were hopeless workaholics, the thought of a promotion was just too intoxicating. It was what kept young Heather up late at night typing up yet another report. They've caught the eye of Murkoff, and she was making sure that they would remain fixated on them.

The only thing that stopped her fingers from plucking away at the keyboard was the sound of the front door opening. She frowned. It was well after midnight, and her brother had already gone to bed, so who could it be? She turned in her chair, getting a sick feeling in her stomach which only became worse upon seeing who it was.

A middle aged man who looked simply dreadful. Icy blue irises were made less brilliant by the sickly bags that hung beneath his eyes. His dark hair was growing more and more thin near the top of his head once so neatly groomed. He had grown a pot belly, evidence of heavy alcohol abuse. His white shirt was old and dingy, and the brown jacket full of holes did him no service. A stranger who she immediately recognized. Alexander Blaire.

"Dad." She said firmly, ignoring her frantic heart. "You cannot be here. The restraining order was very clear about..." She was cut off, he held something in his hand that she did not notice a moment before. A baseball bat, and he took the liberty to demonstrate its effectiveness by swinging it across her face, landing a solid and painful smack.

She fell to the ground, her mouth tasting metallic. "Andria..." he croaked. "Why did you leave me?" She groaned. Andria, her mother's name. He's had too much to drink. But this was wrong, this misconception usually protected her.

She groaned again, clutching her bloodied face. "Dad...stop. You...you can't be here you..." But he wasn't here to talk. The bat cracked against her ribs, pushing the air from her lungs and he just reared back to hit her again, and again, and again.

She tried to fight back, kicking and clawing, but she might as well have been trying to fight off a bear. She was going to lose.

"Jeremy!" She screamed, trying to protect her face. "Jeremy help! Jeremy!" He was going to kill her, he wasn't going to stop he--

The bat was gone. She hesitantly lifted her shaking arm to find her brother had a hold of the wooden object, his eyes livid. The bat hung suspended in the air for a breath, raised to strike, but stopped with an iron grip. Then Jeremy slammed the thing between the eyes of my disbelieving father. It was likely that he would've taken care of the man right there in the middle of our living room when he was reminded of his sister's broken body.

He wouldn't stop, he'd never stop.   
~*~*~

"So why did you push me you impossible bastard!" She cried out to nobody. "Why didn't you just let him kill me? Huh?"

**He never cared about you**

She screeched, stepping back as the outline of her father appeared in the small dark room.

"No, you're dead, we killed you. You're not real!"

But the apparition was not interested in her logic, and it slowly started to approach. There was no where to run, no place to escape. She fell to the ground and backed up into a corner, where she promptly crawled into a small ball.

Ghosts of her bruises and injuries haunted her body. She was back in her apartment, then her bedroom as a little girl who's enraged father pounded on the door, demanding to be let in. She was all at once, and none at all. Afraid, praying for the pain to pass.

There was no one in the room. No sound, save the echoing of Heather's sobs.


	13. The Realization

> _I suppose I don't really know what it means to love. How else do you know but by looking at example? My mother was stern, but in a loving way. She wanted us to excel for our sake. My dad wanted us to excel for the sake of the Blaire name._
> 
> _But my mother died, and I hated her for years for doing so. I know it's illogical and perhaps a little unfair, but you have to understand that my dad had a very limited amount of warmth in his life. I've never seen him smile, but my mother claimed he had the most joyous laugh._
> 
> _I also knew he loved her because he for most of my life never laid a finger on me because I look like her. But that cannot be love, not physically harming another._
> 
> _Anyway, things like compassion, affection and other 'loving' emotions feel foreign to me. Jer and I were close because we pushed one another. We never coddled one another or became sympathetic. We just did our jobs, sometimes enjoying them a little too much._
> 
> _This isn't an excuse for how I treated people. I didn't know how to be kind, but I didn't have to be cruel. I only hope I can get the chance to try and be better._
> 
> _The odds are a million to one, but you never know..._
> 
> **FILE NAME: 0098_Personal_Entry**
> 
> Empty hours, empty minutes. One moment bleeds into the next. She has always been here, and at the same time not at all.
> 
> Her tablet laid next to her, taunting her with its light, but if it ran out of battery life, she knew she would truly lose her mind. As it was, Heather Blaire felt...wrong. She lost a part of herself, but by her own hands. Self disfigurement.
> 
> Maybe she didn't have a choice. Maybe. But in the end, none of it mattered. It didn't help to blame The Witchdoctor, herself, or even Jeremy. She still didn't have her arm, she was still stuck down here.
> 
> Oddly enough, this caused her to softly laugh. So much for being the best. Murkoff wouldn't care if she lived or died. Nobody would.
> 
> Why does she work for these people? People who's experiments create an all new sort of hell.
> 
> A slot on the door opened, then just as quickly shut. This wasn't new. At first, she would frantically claw at the slot, shouting profanities and threats. Then bargains, anything to be let go. Then begging.
> 
> Heather Blaire, did not beg, but what was Heather Blaire?
> 
> She _did_ know that she was _not_ going to touch what was pushed through the slot. It was supposed to be food, and she made the mistake earlier of attempting to eat it, only to discover that it was a piece of flesh with a strange texture.
> 
> And five fingers.
> 
> What little she had left in her stomach became a small pile in the corner, leaving her mouth tasting of bile, an unfortunately familiar flavor.
> 
> Escape no longer truly occupied her mind. She still had her bag with her, including the table knife she snatched from earlier. She believed that the silverware would serve her in escaping as some sort of modified lock pick, and have even accomplished in sharpening it into something more useful. There was just one slight hiccup.
> 
> There was no lock.
> 
> Apparently the door had been modified so its weight was what kept it closed. Only the strength of a Variant could move it. It was as if the cell had been modified specifically for her. But _why?_
> 
> The Witchdoctor's identity was still an unknown, leaving her two steps behind, and helpless. She might just starve down here, or give in and consume whatever was next pushed through the slot. Who knows what he was waiting for.
> 
> So all she could do was sit and think. She often did not have happy thoughts.
> 
> She gripped the side of the bed. Flashes of a young girl with black hair swung back in a ponytail danced before her eyes. She tried to banish the memories, the feelings of anxiety of returning home after school, the feelings of horror of seeing her brother in a bloody crumpled heap on the ground, and the feeling of terror when her dad would pound on her bedroom door late into the night, threatening, apologizing, demanding, it was all one drunken slur. She tried, but control of her thoughts was now nauseatingly limited, there was just one escape.
> 
> Her tablet glowed in her hand, resting the device on her stump and tapping furiously away, labeling the file so to not lose it. "File name..." she muttered "0098, Personal...entry..."
> 
> ~*~*~
> 
> Childhood memories did not come to Heather when she eventually fell into an uneasy sleep. It was a different sort of dream.
> 
> She sat in the leather chair in her office, tapping away on some irrelevant project on her computer, making the individual opposite her even more nervous. In truth, they were supposed to begin their meeting twenty minutes ago, but by keeping Mr. Annapurna waiting, it allowed him believe that Blaire found him insignificant.
> 
> Which according to Heather, was completely true.
> 
> David Annapurna, a nobody therapist, cleared his throat to gather her attention. Her fingers stopped and she narrowed her eyes, but it was just a minor annoyance. Something that could be tolerated. Nothing could squander the giddy mood she was in, all she had to do was keep it hidden from her face.
> 
> "Mr. Annapurna." She began lazily. "Do you know why you are here today?"
> 
> He cleared his threat again, this time in an attempt to speak. "W-well it's probably because I filled out three petitions for dismissals and I.."
> 
> "Have been denied three times." She finished, causing him to flinch. Of course, that wasn't entirely true, none of his petitions have been actually answered, but Annapurna had enough sense to not correct her.
> 
> "In fact it is your third message to us that has me rather concerned Mr. Annapurna. Contact the presses if we continue to ignore you? That's a direct violation of your contract."
> 
> She slowly stood up so she leaned over the therapist, forming a visual picture that she was above him. This time she couldn't help the smirk on her face as he physically cowered.
> 
> **Snake**.
> 
> "For such a, and I use your words, orderly, this is quite out of character. And we here at Murkoff find this to be an alarming symptom that your mental state has become too degraded to continue working."
> 
> "D-degraded?" The doors burst open, causing David to yelp, terror clearly painted on his face as he was discovering the predicament he was in.
> 
> _Too little too late._ Heather could have snickered.
> 
> **Disgusting spider.**
> 
> "Indeed Mr. Annapurna." She continued calmly. "But fortunately for you we have a program set in place specifically for staff members such as you."
> 
> The two men that burst the door open, security guards who were told to wait for her signal hours before this meeting ever took place seized David by his arms.
> 
> "I'm sure you've heard of it, many of our more exemplary patients are sent there." Now she allowed the smile she was holding back to fully show. "Congratulations Mr. Annapurna. You've been hand selected to become a part of the Morphogenic Engine Program, devoting the rest of your life to the advancement of science."
> 
> He opened his mouth to utter some sort of protest, but she made eye contact with the one of the guards who then brought a fist down heavily on the therapist's head.
> 
> **How could you?**
> 
> _Wait...who is that?_
> 
> **You monster.**
> 
> _This didn't happen before._
> 
> **You belong here. You belong with them.**
> 
> _This isn't real..._
> 
> ~*~*~
> 
> She was now sitting upright, throat unexplainably raw. That voice...She neither recognized nor remembered it. But what terrified her the most was not the mystery surrounding it, but the fact that she did not disagree with it.
> 
> Her head fell into her hand. Why had she so enjoyed ruining other people's lives? Who even does that?
> 
> Murkoff does.
> 
> Her head snapped up. She had no control here, Murkoff did. They were the ones who decided who was and was not committed to the Engine, who created an Asylum meant to make people _more_ crazy instead of better.
> 
> _They need to pay._
> 
> The thoughts were more than dangerous, they were suicidal. Yet once thought, were undeniable.
> 
> She wanted to live.
> 
> She wanted to leave this place.
> 
> And she wanted, more than ever, to bring down the corporation who tried to make a slave out of her.
> 
> As if in response to her determination, Heather became suddenly aware of something out of place in the room. In fact, the occurrence was so inconceivable, that she had _felt_ the change before she saw it. And even when she did, she had a moment of doubt.
> 
> But the door was indeed, open.


	14. The Almost Ascension

_In relative terms, I had not known the Witchdoctor all that long, but we were connected in a way that was different from every other Variant in that hellish place. In the way that Waylon Park was connected to Eddie Gluskin, and the reporter that made it, Miles Upshur to Richard Trager._

_Witchdoctor was my monster._

_In a strange way it was almost intimate, but only afterwards. A long, long time afterwards. Every night he invades my dreams and knew me better than I think I did. I wish I learned his name, who he was. But I never did, to this day I do not know who he is. But he reflects many of the residents at Mount Massive, unbridled rage at the injustice and no way to vent it. Their voices didn't matter, they were disposable, so all they could feel was hate._

_He hated me, but at the same time he loved me. I was his punching bag, his involuntary listener. I eventually would have been his sacrifice, but I can't help but wonder what would have happened if I was a better listener, that I had felt his injustice and understood. I've grown a taste for Murkoff's blood._

_But I didn't, and he didn't try to give me the chance. To him, I bled nothing but Murkoff's lies, and I deserved nothing but bleeding out like a stuck pig._

_Oh what I'd pay to keep him out of my dreams. Money would fly like birds._

**FILE NAME: 8172_Personal_File**

To say the least, Heather wasn't expecting an angel's choir when she took her first steps outside the cell, but she hadn't really expected to hear screaming either. The sound after days of silence assaulted her eardrums, leaving her disoriented and in pain.

Fortunately for her, with all the chaos surrounding the area, she was left mainly unnoticed, giving her enough time to recover and gather her bearings. Sight, however, was impossible to gain as all sources of light was nonexistent, causing her to bring out her tablet and switch to record.

She regretted doing so immediately afterwards

There, splayed before all to see was what once was a man who had been thrown with a tremendous force against the heavy metal door, cracking it. Blood exploded from the point of impact, coating the entire door along with the surrounding wall and stone floor. Laying in one piece by the crack laid only a spine and bloody rib cage, bits of organ clinging to the bone. The rest of him was either caked with the blood, or simply obliterated.

The sight was wretched, but oh god, the _smell_.

She had all but lost everything in her stomach, so when it violently turned over, all she could do was dry heave.

Only one thing had the strength to smash a Variant in that manner. And that explained the screaming. The frenzied panic.

The goddamned _static_.

She had to keep moving. Evidently she was not the only prisoner in this Ward, many other Variants were either scrambling away or simply staring into space, wide-eyed and confused, each in various stages of disfigurement, some with missing limbs, others with additional limbs attached. How long were they all trapped here?

She turned a corner, the panic getting marginally dimmer, but that only allowed for a more sinister sound. _Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap._

_No. There's no way. He can't know where I am._

Yet the tapping grew only louder. More frequent. It was getting difficult to hold her tablet while she shook like a child. The Witchdoctor had entered the area.

"My child.." he wheezed. "Why are you trying to run?"

His hearing was too acute, but if she could stay still, he can't see her. There was a locker, that would do.

"I'm only trying to make you better. You're not well."

He can't see. All she needs to do is not make a single sound. No breathes, no whimpers, absolute silence. Surely he can't hear her heartbeat.

"You can't stay hidden forever."

_Watch me psycho._

But then, as if he had heard her thoughts, she saw through the screen of her tablet, him slowly smiling.

"Why don't you step out of the locker?"

Her senses exploded into hyperdrive. She burst out of the locker, and dashed off as fast as her feet would carry her, in the opposite direction. She couldn't think, couldn't fully breathe. Her broken ribs and panic made that impossible. All she could do was keep running.

It was fruitless. She would dodge and weave and roll over and around obstacles. She squeezed through narrow passages, slammed doors shut behind her. But she was forced every now and then to stop and catch her breath, and each time she did, the damnable tapping returned. She would try to hide, but he would call her out every time like it was some sort of sick twisted game.

"My child, come out from under the desk. It's dirty down there."

"A bed? Really? You ought to lose another arm for that."

"Get out of the locker. I'm losing my patience."

Of course, he wouldn't always use his words. He would sometimes predict her path and suddenly appear before her, slamming a fist into her gut. Breathless and dazed, her feet continued to move on their own accord. She could not get caught again, she would not survive the experience. His gave that away, a sort of tension, pent up rage that at any moment would explode into fury.

Finally, she believed she fully lost him. She shut a door, softly this time, and found above her, an open vent. At last, salvation, and she climbed inside.

But no sooner had she done so that the door flung open. Against all better judgement, her fist pounded against the ventilation shaft, reverberations filling up the room. "No! Damn it!"

"Feeling a little frustrated?" Came a cool voice.

"F**k you."

The Witchdoctor then began to go into some nonsensical string of reasoning over why she should stop running and just give up and so on and so forth, but Heather Blaire was not listening.

She was thinking.

Obviously, she could not shake him. No matter where she hid, he always seemed to find her. This means she'll have to find her way out while running from him. Her cameras won't help her here, there were none to use. Neither could she stay here, even now the Witchdoctor was poking at the vent, taunting her. Subtly warning her.

She took one deep breath, gathered her tablet in her arm, then hurled herself out of the vent, running as soon as she hit the floor. She could feel the air whoosh where the Witchdoctor tried to grab her, but that caused her to neither slow nor hesitate. There were no attempts at hiding now, just going and avoiding. A Variant would jump out at her now and then causing her to run the other way or push them down.

This was the plan. Keep running until you find a way to escape.  An opportunity would eventually present itself. It had to. She refused to believe that it wouldn't.

She skirted around a corner and had to pause to catch her breath. It was more difficult to run with only one arm, it was an unnatural imbalance. It was there, however, that she finally heard her opportunity, running water.

She made a mad dash, adrenaline coursing through her like a drug. Every time she had to slow it was as though the Witchdoctor was breathing down her neck. But the air was growing more damp, the roar of water becoming more clear.

_So close._

She turned around the corner and stepped into a vast dark opening. This was where she came in, the large pool in the center laid stagnant. Now that she wasn't falling, she could see that this area was more natural than she thought. The main sewage deposit. Lovely. But that meant that there was definitely a way up.

The tapping had for a moment quieted, but she knew he would be coming by soon. She switched the filter on her tablet, allowing a bright light to illuminate the area. There to the left was a railing, a way out. She sighed with relief. She was going to leave this area, put this nightmare behind her.

But just then, her tablet flashed an alert: low battery. If she didn't want her only source of emergency light to die, she'd have to walk in the dark. Of course she would, since when have the odds been in her favor?

Her device slipped into her bag and she reached out for the railing, only to stumble forward. Right, only one arm. This was going to take time to get used to.

She clutched the metal bar with a death grip, spitting a string of curses. It was slow progress, shuffle forward, one step at a time. The blackness once again wrapped around her thickly, vividly reminding her of her time spent in the Black Room. Her tablet felt hot in her bag, potential light calling out tauntingly to her.

She grit her teeth and clutched the railing even tighter. It can't be much further now, how far could she fall anyway? It didn't matter, ascending would naturally take longer than descending. What was truly a mystery was the complete lack of tapping. She had thought this would be a dead sprint back to the top, but the only sounds she could hear was the rushing of water and her heeled boots against the concrete. Would the Witchdoctor really let her go this easily?

And that was when she felt a cold, clammy hand wrap around her ankle. She didn't even have time to gasp when once again she was falling down the pit. Their bodies crashed against the water and she immediately started to struggle, writhing and straining for the edge.

"You're not leaving." Came his growl. The Witchdoctor. He then disappeared under the water, and she struggled to stay afloat.

_He's trying to drown us!_

There was no possible way she could carry both of their weight, and soon enough she was dragged below the surface. She started to panic, he wasn't going to let go, his nails dug deep enough into her ankle to draw blood, and with one arm she wasn't a strong enough swimmer.

_I have two legs._

He was only holding onto one of her ankles. With burning lungs, she roughly brought her free leg down onto where she guessed his face was, and felt her heel sink into one of the holes were his eye should have been. She didn't relent, kicking and digging until his grip on her lessened and she pushed off from him, clawing for the surface.

She wasn't sure if blackness was starting to blot her vision as there was nothing to see. She could be miles from the surface, or inches, not until her finger tips came into contact with cool air, adding all new vigor to her limbs.

Her head broke the surface with a heaving gasp. She was barely conscious of pulling herself to dry land, but she found herself the next moment shivering on the concrete. She couldn't move, it was as if some unknown force had glued her to the spot, forced to watch the water, listening for the sound of crashing water, for the Witchdoctor to rise.

But the sound never came, as she knew deep down it would. She knew that he was dead, because of her.

She suddenly couldn't breathe. She leaned forward and clutched her chest as one plaguing thought after another assaulted her mind. She gasped short ragged breaths and tears slipped from her eyes, racing down her cheeks. She was having a panic attack, something she used to have all the time, but never knew how to stop it while it occurred.

And then, her back arched and she released an animalistic cry that filled the vast space and did not stop until she absolutely needed to breathe again.

It took Heather a lot longer to get up and move again. For at that moment, something happened to her that has never occurred before. It didn't happen when she lost her arm, when she was in the Black Room, nor when she was relentlessly chased in this terrible prison.

She was broken, and unsure if she would ever be healed again.


End file.
